


Shot (very, very near) the Heart

by kenopsiaa



Category: White Collar
Genre: Betrayal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-18 15:37:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8167106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenopsiaa/pseuds/kenopsiaa
Summary: AU to 5.11 'Shot Through the Heart,' in which Rebecca actually pulls the trigger.





	1. The Ultimate Act of Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal is shot by Rebecca. Peter says some things he shouldn't have.

It wasn't until Rebecca was taken down by the dozen SWAT rifles aimed at her that Neal realized he'd been shot.

In all the chaos, the succession of her bullet followed by the numerous government bullets was so quick it was impossible to tell whose weapon had been the first to fire. 

She was dead instantly; he watched as her gun fell from her grasp, clattering onto the cobblestone with an echo that reverberated strangely in Neal's ears. And then he staggered back, his gaze finding the area of his white shirt that was rapidly staining with a startling shade of red. 

His knees buckled, and then the stone was pressing hard into his back. There were noises, commotion, shouting - but it all blended together into one long, incessant blur that Neal's brain couldn't make sense of. 

"Neal!" Peter's voice cut right though all the indecipherable nonsense. Neal's vision was fracturing, unable to focus on Peter's face above him. "Neal, oh my god - Someone get EMT!" 

There were two hands enclosing one of his own, coated with something warm and thick that could only be his blood. "Neal, can you hear me? If you can hear me, squeeze my hand."

His fingers obeyed before his mind could process the command; this seemed to satisfy Peter. "Good, that's good - keep squeezing, buddy, that's it. Stay with me."

It was suddenly very difficult to keep his eyes open. There was no pain, only a growing sense of exhaustion that was threatening to take him completely. He was dying, surely; he supposed he should feel fortunate that death was seizing him without suffer. It was only matter of time, now, before he would fall asleep and it would all be over.

He could feel his breathing become shallow. The words Peter was saying to him were growing slower and harder to understand, and after a while he was tuning him out altogether. It was too big a feat to focus on anything at all, really, besides the endless expanse of midnight sky above him. There were stars embedded within the inky black, an ethereal glow surrounding them - like the headlights of a car in heavy rain. Neal focused solely on their simplistic beauty, content to slip away with such an enchanting vision.

* * *

Peter never thought he would ever feel his entire life flash before his eyes within the four hours that Neal had been in surgery. Then again, he never thought that his hands would ever be coated completely in Neal's blood, either. As he washed it off in the hospital restroom, he had a distant, strange connection with Lady Macbeth; no matter how hard he tried, the blood would never fully wash from his skin. It was only Shakespeare playing tricks on his mind, he knew, but that didn't prevent him from succumbing to the all-encompassing guilt he felt for what had happened. 

"Stop it." Elizabeth's voice was a soothing murmur in his ear, breaking the heavy silence that hung over them in the waiting room. 

Peter's eyes didn't break from the yellowed linoleum beneath his dirtied shoes. "What?"

"Stop blaming yourself." This time, he met her gaze. "This isn't your fault. Rebecca pulled the trigger, not you."

"Then why do I feel so guilty?"

"Because you're a good man, and you care." Her smile was warm, though hesitant with worry over the unknown severity of Neal's condition. "He's gonna be okay. I know it."

Her reassurance was meant for the both of them. "God, El, I hope you're right."

She ran her hand over his back in slow circles, though to Peter's disappointment, the gesture wasn't as comforting as it normally would have been. "What even went down back there? I never got the details."

"Neal used himself as bait to help us catch Rebecca. I don't think he realized that she'd pull a gun on him, given their romantic past." Peter's stomach churned; recounting the story somehow made it all seem surreal. "It worked anyway, and we had her cornered. But then, she looked him right in the eye, and she shot him." His head fell into his hands, those last three words rolling through him like never-ending waves of dread onto shore. "Oh my god, she shot him," he whispered to no one in particular, as if the realization was only striking him now. 

"Wow," Elizabeth breathed, her hand ceasing abruptly on his back. "Talk about the ultimate act of betrayal."

"All of it - the lies, the deceit, the manipulation - all for a lost diamond." Peter shook his head; it would have to take a seriously psychopathic person to do everything she'd done for a mere object. She lied to Neal; she broke his heart when they discovered her fake identity. And then, she went ahead and put a bullet through it for good measure. 

"But why would he bait her with - himself? Neal's smart, he would've known her intentions," Elizabeth remarked. 

"He's impulsive," Peter shrugged. "He grew up without parents. Nobody ever set any rules for him. And without rules, he didn't know right from wrong. Nobody looked after him, nobody cared for him. He's careless with his life because nobody was there to show him anything different." 

Elizabeth stared at him. "When did you get a degree in psychology?" 

He offered a small smile. "Didn't need to. I just know Neal." 

Another hour had crawled by before the head doctor tending to Neal appeared in the waiting room. She informed them that the surgery, while rather extensive, had gone very well, and that he was stable and resting now. He'd lost a lot of blood, but she said very confidently that Neal was a lucky man. 

"How so?" Peter asked. The kid had been shot; he was curious to know why a doctor would consider that to be a stroke of luck. 

"If the bullet had struck Mr. Caffrey one millimeter more to the right, he would have died instantly." She gave Peter and El a brief, warm smile. "He's young, and he's healthy. But he's also one hell of a fighter."

* * *

Neal's convalescence wasn't slow or gradual, like waking from a dream. It was sudden and harsh, like an imaginary slap in the face, with all the panic and paranoia waiting for him back in reality.

The first feeling he could make sense of was that everything hurt. The second was that there were tubes and wires connected to him that had never been there before, and why didn't he have a shirt on? 

He cracked his eyes open. Once they focused, he became aware that he was in a hospital room and that it was very dark, the only light being a soft yellow lamp on the bedside table. 

Peter was here, in a chair to his left. Asleep. His form was hunched over, head on top of folded arms on his mattress. How strange.

He noticed an empty Jell-O cup with a spoon inside, appearing to have tipped over onto the table. "Did you eat my Jell-O?" He whispered, frowning. His voice was fractured and rough, like he hadn't used it in years. 

At the sound, Peter jerked awake. A small smile formed on his face, disbelieving eyes widening slightly as he sat up straighter. "Hey, buddy. How you feeling?"

Neal searched around the room for any sign of the wobbly dessert. "Is there any Jell-O left?"

Peter chuckled softly, seeming considerably worn. The clothes he donned were the same as the ones he'd been wearing when Neal saw him last, though they were now rumpled and stained with blood. The lines on his face were deeper, his shoulders slumped forward unintentionally. Had Neal caused this exhaustion and distress? "Tell you what - first thing in the morning, you can have some Jell-O. Any flavor you want."

Neal's eyes squinted at the small window to his right side. "It's dark."

"It's 2:30 in the morning," Peter told him, checking his watch.

"Two-thirty in the..." He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. His mind was foggy and dazed, and he couldn't piece together what exactly was going on. "Why are you here?"

Peter presented his FBI badge. "They let me stay."

He blinked. "Why?"

"Neal, you were shot in the chest. I wasn’t going to just leave you here."

Neal looked down, and there was indeed a white gauze square taped near his pectoral muscle. Suddenly, he remembered. "Rebecca."

Peter's lips pressed into a line as nodded. 

At the sight of it, his entire chest began to ache. It was all coming back to him now, in fragmented snapshots but still vivid and sharp. The meeting with Rebecca to make the exchange, the surge of panic as she brandished her gun; the brief sense of victory as she fell into his trap, and the even shorter relief as Peter and SWAT arrived. And then there was the moment of stillness, where nobody moved a muscle - nobody made a sound. Rebecca looked directly at him, her eyes icy and deceitful as she pulled the trigger. No remorse. No sadness. No guilt. And, a long second later, nothing at all as the life in her eyes left altogether. 

The sound of Peter's voice shattered his reverie, repeating his earlier question. "How are you feeling?"

He mindlessly adjusted the blankets that had fallen to his waist. He should have felt cold with the lack of any material on his skin, but he didn't. "Kind of wish she'd stabbed me in the back instead," He muttered, not caring how bitter he sounded. "Would've hurt less."

"I'm not so sure about that," he laughed, but there wasn't any humor in it. Then he paused, studying Neal. "Does it hurt?"

"If you mean my entire body, then yes," he replied, wishing his voice wasn’t so slow and that it would reach a level above a broken whisper. "How long’s it been?"

"You were out for three days."

"Why am I not dead?"

"Bullet missed your heart by a millimeter."

For a while Neal sat thoughtfully in silence. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to feel fortunate or lucky that the shot hadn't been fatal. The only feeling he was sure of was betrayal; the bullet may not have struck his heart, but it definitely felt like it was broken. He avoided Peter's eyes when he asked quietly, "She's dead?"

From the corner of his eye he nodded. "She can't hurt you anymore. You're safe now."

Suddenly Neal's throat constricted, and he looked away when he felt the sharp sting of threatening tears in the back of his eyes. "You know, that really doesn't make me feel any better, Peter," he managed through gritted teeth. Then, with less hostility, "I never wanted her dead. Ever."

Peter gawked at him like he'd been offended. "Well, she clearly had other ideas for you, because in case you forgot - she shot you, Neal!"

He hadn't raised his voice, but his tone was harsh and Neal really did not need a lecture from Peter right now. So he turned away completely - partly to hide the unshed tears in his eyes from so many mixed emotions and panic, and partly to tell Peter with his body that he was finished with the conversation. "I'm really tired," he mumbled at the wall, pulling the blankets up to his chin. 

For a few moments Peter said nothing. But eventually, a long, heavy sigh was audible, followed by the scuff of a chair. His hand touched Neal’s thigh right before he came into view around the bed. “El and I will be back in a few hours,” he said quietly, only turning to face him when he’d reached the door. “Sleep well, Neal.”

Once he had gone, Neal had the opportunity to mourn Rebecca in private, without feeling ashamed for being sad about her death in the first place.

***

“Hon, you ready?”

“Yeah, just – getting my shoes on.”

It was just after seven in the morning, and visiting hours at the hospital were open. Peter had had a fitful night’s sleep; knowing that Neal wasn’t safe and sound in his home had him feeling surprisingly uneasy.

Elizabeth was waiting for him by the front door. She smiled when he appeared at the top of the stairs. “How was he last night?”

“He told me he was in pain, but he could carry on a conversation without too much trouble. Other than the morphine slowing his speech, he was able to talk to me pretty well.”

Once they’d climbed into the car outside the house, El adjusted the heat before speaking again. “Did he remember what happened to Rebecca?”

From the driver’s seat, Peter shook his head with pursed lips. “He asked, I told him.”

“How’d he take it?”

“Not well.” Peter grimaced, pieces of their conversation rolling through his mind. “Told me he never wanted her dead. Even after everything she put him through, he never wanted that.”

He felt Elizabeth’s eyes on the side of his face. “And you blame him?”

He exhaled sharply. “She shot him, El. As far as I’m concerned, that woman’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.”

Her arms crossed over her chest. “I hope you didn’t say that to Neal.”

Peter hesitated. “What if I did?”

A disapproving huff sounded from the passenger seat. “Oh, honey – you really need to think before you say things.”

“What?”

“Do you have any idea how much he loved her? Not Rachel – Rebecca. I know she lied to him, Peter, but just think for a second about how heartbroken he must be.”

“But she lied –”

“That doesn’t matter,” She interrupted. “It doesn’t matter that she turned out to be a manipulative liar, or that she pulled a gun on him. Neal just lost someone he cared about. And you just – you can’t say things like that to him, hon. You can’t make him feel bad for grieving someone he loved. You just can’t do that.”

Minutes passed, but Peter couldn’t formulate any kind of response to her words. It wasn’t until they pulled into the hospital parking lot that he finally muttered, “I think he might be mad at me.”

El took his hand, running her other up and down his arm. “I think you might be right,” she whispered back.

Neal was asleep when they arrived in his room. The doctor assured them it was normal; he’d lost a lot of blood, and the impact of the bullet in his chest had weakened him considerably. That didn’t stop Peter from worrying anyway.

Elizabeth took the chair near his head, touching his arm lightly. “Neal,” she murmured.

Peter lingered by the door, observing apprehensively as Neal stirred at her presence. Elizabeth had a much warmer bedside manner than Peter ever would.

His eyes opened fractionally, revealing a sliver of bright blue. He was silent for a moment, blinking slowly. Then, seeming confused, “’Lizabeth?”

She beamed, head tilting slightly to the side. “Hey. Feeling any better today?”

When he shifted his body, a soft groan sounded. “No,” he replied, elongating the syllable.

He didn’t seem to notice Peter hanging back near the exit. For the most part, Elizabeth pressed him with easy questions and sympathetic smiles. Peter knew she was just as relieved as he was that Neal, although not for a while, was going to be just fine.

Since he wasn’t very helpful just standing around, Peter decided to make himself scarce for a while and left to bring Neal some clothes that weren’t a hospital gown.

***

From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw Peter duck out. She could tell he was feeling a bit skittish after she’d practically yelled at him in the car, and she supposed that it might be a little while before the guilt of what he’d said to Neal had worn off significantly.

Neal broke her reverie by nudging the back of his hand against her fingers. “Where’s Peter?” he breathed, brow creasing above heavily lidded eyes.

“He’s around here somewhere,” she replied lightly, giving his hand a squeeze.

He was quiet for a minute, thoughtful. Then, timidly, “Is he still angry with me?”

Neal had a knack for melting her heart. “Oh, he isn’t angry with you, sweetie,” she said, softening her tone. “It’s just – Peter says things sometimes without realizing how he sounds. What he said to you last night, he didn’t mean it the way it came out. He’s just frustrated about what happened to you. That’s all.”

“Do you think I’m wrong?” He queried, crystal eyes watching her carefully. “That I should be glad she’s…” He trailed off, looking away. Poor thing.

She touched his arm, regaining his attention. “Nobody can tell you how to feel, honey. Nobody – not even Peter. If you feel sadness for her death, then you should be. You were the only person close to her, Neal. It’s more than okay to be hurting.”

He bit his lower lip, blinking furiously. When he met her eyes, she was confronted with raw pain and desperation that she had never seen in him before. “It hurts,” he whispered, broken and strained in a way that was pleading her to understand what he felt. And she knew that the pain he was referring to was not the kind from the bullet.

Elizabeth didn’t know what to do. The pain Neal was going through was almost worse than she’d imagined. And from what Peter had explained earlier, it seemed like Neal wasn’t comfortable displaying any grief in front of him. He was still fighting it now, but she could see the hurt beginning to bubble to the surface, despite his best efforts to contain it.

She fought back her own tears, carding her fingers gently through his damp hair while her other hand laced through his. “I know, sweetie,” she murmured. “I know.”

***

The mansion was vacant upon Peter’s arrival. June had been out of town with family, but according to Diana she had arranged to have a seat on the next flight back to New York once made aware of what had happened to Neal.

Pocketing his copy of the house key, Peter slowly ascended the stairs, his legs working more than his brain to complete the motion.

When he opened the door to Neal’s apartment, he realized that this was the first time he had been alone inside. He felt as if he were intruding – a stranger in his friend’s home.

Initially, he had only intended to make a beeline for Neal’s closet, not unlike a horse with blinders. He didn’t want to snoop; it felt wrong.

But as the door closed behind him, the immense silence sparked hyperactivity within his senses that he found impossible to ignore.

Neal’s place… It was peculiar. In Peter’s opinion, it was comparable to a painting; from a distance, everything seemed to blend together perfectly, but up close none of it appeared to fit in with the bigger picture.

Novels and encyclopedias lined the bookshelves, written in languages varying from Russian to Italian to Spanish to Arabic. A bed, neatly made with smooth, silk sheets and a fluffy duvet. Easels, three, placed sporadically near the glass French doors that opened onto the terrace – each bearing a painting, and in varying stages of completion. A mason jar beside the sink, five paintbrushes soaking in milky water; a larger, vase-like container holding the other dozen near the collection of miscellaneous art supplies. Intricate photograph frames along the mahogany mantel above the fireplace – all of them blank. A coffee maker on the counter; a bag of Italian Roast in the cupboard above. A vast walk-in closet, full of vintage three-piece suits that didn’t belong to him. And a spacious terrace, complete with elegant furniture and a stone balustrade and a view of Manhattan that was worth astronomically more than seven hundred dollars a month.

It was a home, undeniably; but someone else’s home, more believably. Besides the obvious devotion to art, there were very few items here that were personal to Neal.

Wherever he went, Neal had a knack for acting like he owned the place. And every time, he got away with it because he was Neal and he could make anyone believe anything.

The principle was no different here. This was Neal’s residence, yes; but without his charisma and warmth and energy filling the entire apartment, it was foreign and generic and _cold_.

Peter sank into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, eyeing the half-empty bottle of Bordeaux beside two wine glasses.

The eerie quiet forced him to wonder if Neal had ever wanted any of this. Because everything in this apartment was temporary; like, if the time ever came, he would be prepared to leave it all behind without a second thought.

Was he even happy here? Neal was a conman, after all; perhaps he’d been fooling Peter this whole time, tricking him into believing that he _wanted_ to turn his life around, to be on the straight and narrow. When he’d made the deal with Peter all those years ago, he mustn’t have expected to be stuck in a two-mile radius, under the FBI’s constant scrutiny for the rest of his sentence. It hurt Peter to think that he regretted all of it. That after everything they’d been through, the instinct to run when things went sideways still lingered in the back of Neal’s mind – and it probably always would.

People like Neal Caffrey would never change, though, right? Telling lies came as easily to him as breathing, and that was how it would always be. Neal knew how to do a lot of things, but he definitely didn’t know how to tell the truth. He didn’t know how to build proper relationships with people, either. He didn’t know how to put down roots. He didn’t know how to be anything other than a conman. Right?

But despite his criminal, sociopathic tendencies, Peter couldn’t find it in his heart to resent him, because Neal also didn’t know how to be anyone other than himself, and it was hard to dislike him for that. He just wished that, in another life, Neal would have chosen to play for the right team – that he would have joined the bureau the proper way, voluntarily. Peter forgot sometimes that Neal only worked with him because he was forced to. Because his alternative was prison. And that realization hurt, more than it should have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know in the comments what you think of this chapter! 2 is coming soon :) xx


	2. Stay Awhile

A week later, Neal was discharged from the hospital after the doctors had declared his vitals stable and assured that everything looked good.

He reluctantly agreed to stay with the Burkes for a few days, when Peter had insisted he be somewhere that he and El could keep an eye on him. It wasn’t like they were going to hover or anything; Peter just wanted to make sure someone was around if any problems were to arise, or in case he needed anything.

He’d dressed himself in a tee shirt and jeans after giving Peter a very indignant stare when he’d suggested heading to the car in his pajamas. (“Peter, I am _not_ going outside in my pajamas. There are people out there, you know.”)

It was amusing to watch the argument between Neal and the stubborn nurse over the wheelchair he was supposed to leave the hospital in, which Neal ultimately won, of course. (“I didn’t get shot in the _leg_ , for Christ’s sake. I can walk perfectly fine.”)

As a precaution, though, Peter braced Neal’s bicep on the way out to the car.

Elizabeth was still in her client meeting by the time dusk had set in. He pulled up to the curb in front of the house, helping Neal ascend the steep staircase to the door. He was so much weaker than he claimed to be, whether he wanted to admit it or not. In fact, his breathing was worryingly ragged once they’d reached the top step.

Inside, Neal all but collapsed onto the living room sofa. Peter tossed his jacket over the armchair, proceeding into the kitchen where he placed the plastic bag full of Neal’s medications and painkillers. “You want anything?” He called as he poked his head into the fridge, grabbing a cold bottle of beer for himself.

Neal’s worn, rough voice replied, “Coffee?”

Just as he’d been about to tell him no, his eye caught on the bag of decaffeinated beans tucked into the corner of the cabinet above the coffee maker. He smirked. “Sure.”

By the time Peter delivered the steaming cup (only milk, no sugar, the way he always took it) into the living room, Neal had dozed off, curled into an uncomfortable-looking position. Peter nudged his knee with his foot, presenting the mug with a stifled look of amusement.

He woke with a start, sitting up quickly. Running a hand through his hair, he quietly thanked Peter for the coffee and proceeded to take a careful sip. He stared into it thoughtfully before he remarked, “This is decaf, isn’t it.”

Peter gave a brief chuckle, shuffling over to the kitchen table where a towering stack of case files awaited his attention. “Sorry, pal – no caffeine for you ‘til you’re off painkillers.”

There came a soft groan of disappointment, and Peter just shook his head. From his vantage point in the kitchen, he could still keep an eye on him while he worked. “Now that we’re out from under of the public’s scrutinizing stare, I think you’re safe to put those pajamas back on,” he suggested, and definitely not at all teasing Neal for still being wardrobe-conscious after being shot.

“Maybe later,” he mumbled, and Peter saw his head sink back into the cushion.

Peter smiled fondly. Sleepy Neal was a pleasant Neal.

***  
Neal was half-awake when he registered the front door opening loudly, but closing softly. There was something soft and heavy over his body: a blanket. Somebody whispered, “Shh,” and except for the muffled padding of footsteps, there was silence. “Hey, hon.” He recognized Elizabeth’s soothing murmur. “How’s he doing?”

A brief kiss, and then a sigh. Peter. “He’s alright. Been out like a light since we got home. Actually, it’s almost time for another round of pain meds.”

“I see he’s had a bit of coffee. You made him decaf, I hope?” From the brief silence, Neal assumed Peter had given a nod. Elizabeth continued, “Why’s he not in pajamas? Sleeping in jeans is a lot less comfortable than you’d imagine.”

“I think he just wanted to sleep, honey. Was probably too tired to change.”

It was strange, eavesdropping on a conversation about himself. Neal had to strain to catch their hushed words. “Are you going to go to work tomorrow?”

Neal could practically see the grimace Peter wore. “I was planning on it, but I don’t want to leave him by himself.”

“Well, after my meeting with a caterer tomorrow morning, I can hang here and work from my computer.”

“You sure?”

“Of course.” Another kiss. “I know you haven’t gotten into the office much this past week, and those white collar criminals aren’t going to catch themselves.”

A quiet laugh. “I love you to the moon, Elizabeth Burke.”

“And I love you from the moon, and back.”

Neal would have gagged if he weren’t pretending to be asleep.

He didn’t realize he had drifted off again until a hand was on his shoulder, shaking him gently. “Neal?” Elizabeth. “Neal, honey, you’ve got to take your medicine.”

Once he’d sat up, Peter appeared, bearing a cool glass of water and multiple pills. He was grateful for it, as he was in loads more pain than he would ever let on to Peter or Elizabeth.

Peter gazed down at him with his hands-on-hips posture, regarding him intently. “Neal, why don’t you head on up to the guest room? It’s much more comfy than crashing on the couch here.”

Neal eyed the staircase warily; with the miniscule amount of energy he obtained, it appeared more like Mount Everest than a set of a few stairs.

Peter, obviously noting his apprehension, rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t worry – I’m not going to let you trip and die. Your blood will ruin the hardwood.”

Neal laughed, like he usually did at Peter’s dry humor. He was actually funny, sometimes.

But the laugh morphed into a groan at the pain it inflicted in his chest. Peter noticed. “You okay?” He asked worriedly, stance suddenly tense.

Neal let out a sigh. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good.” And then he allowed Peter to guide him up the stairs, him carrying most of Neal’s weight while Elizabeth hovered, alert, two steps behind them.

Once in the guest bedroom, the climb up the stairs had taken all of his remaining energy. His lack of strength prevented him from being able to successfully pull off his shirt and jeans by himself; he stood in his boxers like a helpless child while Elizabeth carefully slipped his pajama top on, paying extra attention to the tender wound in his chest. She then guided his legs into the bottoms, helping him tie the drawstring tight around his waist.

As El did this, Peter disappeared down the hall in search of extra blankets. Neal was grateful; it was a little too weird for his FBI partner to help him dress himself.

Many minutes later, thanks to the Burke’s impromptu parental skills, Neal had finally found a comfortable position in bed, under warm blankets and heavy painkillers. He was drowsy as they tucked the covers tightly underneath the mattress; he barely registered the soft ‘Goodnight’ they each whispered before the light beyond his eyelids turned to darkness.

***

It was just after one in the morning when Peter woke. The temperature had dropped considerably during the night, and his first waking thought – after automatically checking on Elizabeth beside him, of course – was to make sure Neal was warm enough.

He padded quietly down the hall toward the guest room, but the dim light coming from the living room downstairs stopped him. He followed the source of it instead.  
“Neal?” He whispered loudly as he descended the stairs, finding no sign of him except for the back door that stood ajar.

He was sitting in a chair at the round backyard table, seemingly staring into space. Despite the low temperature, he wore only plaid pajama pants and one of Peter’s FBI Academy pullover sweatshirts.

“Neal, what are you doing out here? It’s freezing, and you’re supposed to be in bed.”

Neal’s brow furrowed. “I haven’t been outside in over a week. I wanted to be outside.”

“Son of a –” Peter huffed, placing a hand on his hips in brief thought before hurrying back inside in search of blankets. He returned with a pile, draping every single one of them over Neal. By the time he stepped back to admire his caretaking skills, the kid was a human burrito. “Well, uh,” he continued, wrapping his arms around himself as he regarded Neal, “Don’t stay out here too much longer, okay? You’ll catch a cold, which you really don’t need right now.”

He nodded, acknowledging, but otherwise disregarded Peter. He’d never seen Neal like this before – distant, guarded, nonchalant. Sometimes he could tend to be a little bit of all three, but never so extreme. And as a federal agent, as someone who did not deal with compassion and sympathy on a daily basis, Peter had difficulty deciding how to act around him. Neal was hurting, Peter knew; he’d had his heart mistreated too many times for someone with such a good one. But he didn’t know how to help him feel better. He didn’t know what to do.

“Neal.” Peter lingered in the doorway, leaning against the frame as Neal’s back was facing him.

His head turned to the side but his eyes remained cast down, only granting Peter a shadowed view of his side profile.

When no verbal response came, Peter continued. “Look – I’m still here, El’s still here. Mozzie’s around here, somewhere. We’re all still here, Neal, and we care about you. Just – promise me you haven’t given up.”

He hesitated. “What if I have?”

Peter frowned, because that wasn’t exactly the answer he’d been hoping for. “There are people here who love you. Remember that.”

***

Two days later, Neal was strong enough to move back into June’s. When she had returned from her trip earlier in the week, she’d stopped by the Burkes to check up on him and to bring extra clothes. Now, at the house, she was awaiting his return.

To say the least, it was nice to be in complete control of himself again. Neal was an independent man; he detested having to rely on others for help with normal, everyday tasks. His strength hadn’t completely returned yet, but he was progressing steadily and, according to the doctor, would be ready for fieldwork in no time.

She’d kept his apartment exactly as he’d left it; and after helping him settle his things, she left him to the solitude of his place.

Because of his natural ability to notice details, Neal’s eyes were almost immediately drawn to the photograph frames along his mantel. They had been empty before, but now there were pictures occupying them.

On the far left was the photo of Peter and himself from the sting on the Irish mob – the one that still sat in the Burkes’ living room. Beside it, there was a captured moment of Neal and Elizabeth grinning on the couch in the living room; he remembered they had been celebrating her birthday that evening.

A photo he didn’t recall being taken was on the right; it was of him and June, pouring over Byron’s vinyl record collection in the study. To the left of that was a picture with Mozzie; Neal was smiling at an elaborate tale that Mozzie had been gesticulating over glasses of wine at his very own kitchen table. This photo in particular he remembered; June had been with them, claiming to have been testing the film in Byron’s vintage camera.

And in the very center was a photograph of the entire white-collar team, beaming amiably in the bullpen of the office. Peter had his arm thrown loosely around Neal’s shoulder, Diana and Jones both leaning into him on his other side.

The day that photo was taken had been one of his best while working for the FBI. He’d just been released from prison following the death of Kate, and he recalled being astronomically surprised that everyone had welcomed him back with open arms – like they genuinely wanted him there with them, and that they truly enjoyed his company. That feeling of camaraderie was a feeling that people like him never experienced, and didn’t deserve to.

By the time Neal had found the small slip of paper tucked underneath that frame, he was blinking away unshed tears. On it, in Peter’s barely legible chicken scratch, read:

_This is your home. Stay a while._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of the second chapter?? Let me know in the comments :) xx


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